


Swipe Right On My Heart

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Idiots in Love, Jealous Derek, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: He’s about to give up and close the app when he sees the photo. It’s hardly any different from many of the other profile pics he’s seen, and certainly more tame than some. But it sends a shiver of want through his body, followed by a shock of recognition that stuns him, that makes the world spin for a moment.It’s so overwhelming he has to put the phone down and get up and walk around. He stalks a few laps through the loft before picking up the phone again and tapping on the pic to make it full screen.It dawns on Derek then that if he recognizes him based on a faceless pic of his bare chest, then there’s a damn good chance he’s gonna recognize Derek’s photo, and that realization fills him with an embarrassment that borders on panic.He takes a screenshot of the photo, then deactivates his account, deleting the app for good measure.





	Swipe Right On My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Gentle Readers! It's been a hot minute hasn't it?! I'm thrilled to share some sweet knotty smut with y'all! This is smutty extension of a ficlet I posted to Tumblr last year. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Endless thanks to [dizzy-redhead](http://dizzy-readhead.tumblr.com/>) for the beta! 
> 
> [pic source](https://recrutas.tumblr.com/post/160683158074/andr%C3%A9-albano-instagram)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for your kudos and comments! xoxo

Derek glares at the unfamiliar icon on his phone, mentally cursing his younger sister. He supposes it’s his own fault for telling Cora his passcode. From there, it only took her two tries to guess his app store password, and less than twenty minutes later Derek found himself with a Tinder profile.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she had smirked, tossing the phone at him on her way out the door. “Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do.”

Derek had refused to open the app for a good three hours after she left, even putting his phone on silent and resolutely ignoring it out of principle. But six-and-a-half wolfsbane-laced beers later, curiosity and loneliness finally get the better of him, and he finds himself tapping on the icon with a red bubble in the corner showing 64 notifications.

Cora’s words ring in his mind as he takes a look at his own Tinder profile for the first time. _You might think your never-ending foul mood is endearing, Derbear, but trust me, it’s not. You need to get laid, dude, for everyone’s sake._

Sure, it’s been almost two years since he’s had sex, and even longer since he’s been with another man. And yeah, okay, sometimes he’s so pent up with repressed sexual energy that it barely takes a few strokes in the shower for him to come, gasping and biting back the name he’s aching to moan. And sure, fine, sometimes his sexual frustration manifests as an all-consuming irritation with and hatred of everything and everyone around him.

His nosy, too-damn insightful little sister is absolutely right, and Derek _hates_ it.

Even though he’s alone, he groans in embarrassment when he sees the photo Cora used on his profile. It’s from Lydia’s birthday party a few months ago; wearing only an ugly pair of green swim shorts that he borrowed from Boyd, he's standing next to Lydia's pool and holding a plastic red cup, smiling. Actually, he remembers the exact moment: he had been laughing at something Stiles said while trying to control his lust for him. Stiles had been wearing nothing but a pair of dangerously low-slung boardshorts, and looking so good it required new feats of emotional strength for Derek to not fall to his knees at his feet and declare his undying love.

Cora had cropped out the top part of his face and centered the photo on his chest and abs, and it’s so cliché it’s painful. But, judging by the number of messages he seems to have, apparently cliché works. Ignoring the messages, he thumbs through the nearby matches, doubtful that he’ll find anyone worth his time, cringing at the neediness of it all, not to mention his own desperate thirst.

He’s about to give up and close the app when he sees the photo. It’s hardly any different from many of the other profile pics he’s seen, and certainly more tame than some. But it sends a shiver of want through his body, followed by a shock of recognition that stuns him, that makes the world spin for a moment.

It’s so overwhelming he has to put the phone down and get up and walk around. He stalks a few laps through the loft before picking up the phone again and tapping on the pic to make it full screen.

It dawns on Derek then that if he recognizes him based on a faceless pic of his bare chest, then there’s a damn good chance he’s gonna recognize Derek’s photo, and that realization fills him with an embarrassment that borders on panic.

He takes a screenshot of the photo, then deactivates his account, deleting the app for good measure.

**~*~**

Later, lying in bed with his stomach striped with come, the only light in the room the glow of his phone showing the black-and-white pic, Derek half-heartedly tries to convince himself that maybe he’s wrong.

Maybe it’s not Stiles. Maybe it’s another leanly muscled beauty with creamy skin and the exact pattern of moles across his chest and stomach that Derek has memorized perfectly over years of friendship and monster-fighting and infuriating longing.

It’s no use. It’s Stiles, all right, Derek is absolutely sure, and goddamnit, the knowledge makes him almost as angry as he is aroused.

He knows Stiles finds him attractive - he’s smelled it on him so many times since that first day in the Preserve all those years ago – so why in the hell is he trolling for anonymous dick when Derek is right here? Stiles - who came out as bi years ago – who knows Derek is also bi, who knows he’s single, has got to be aware of Derek’s ridiculous crush on him…but he’d still rather hook up with some random guy from Tinder than him.

He grunts in frustration and uses a corner of the sheet to haphazardly wipe off his stomach before plugging his phone in to charge. He rolls over in a huff, resigned to the never-ending battle to keep Stiles off of his mind.

**~*~**

A week later, Derek sees him for the first time since he found his profile. Stiles has invited everyone over to his house for a barbecue, and Derek makes sure to get there after everyone else so as not to risk being alone with him and saying something that will give him away.

As he lets himself in Stiles’ front door, he tries to forget about all of the times in the past few days he’s gotten himself off to that damn pic – which, of course, means that’s all he’s thinking about. He’s paranoid that Stiles will somehow just _know_ , worried that Stiles might have seen Derek’s profile for the few hours it existed and might say something to him about it.

There’s also the very likely possibility that Stiles has been hooking up with Tinder guys day and night and will smell like strangers, will be bearing the evidence of his preference for men-who-aren’t-Derek, and _fuck,_ just the thought of that makes Derek’s blood boil with jealousy.

So it’s safe to say that his anxious frustration is written all over his face as he stomps to the kitchen to put the case of beer he brought in the fridge. It shouldn’t be a surprise when Stiles, who appears seemingly out of nowhere, gives him a once-over and a suspicious, critical look. But somehow it still is.

“You okay, big guy?” he asks, stepping towards the refrigerator, which brings him squarely into Derek’s personal space.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, too defensively. He plants himself where he stands and crosses his arms across his chest, fixing Stiles with a glare while he tries to subtly catch his scent.

“Okay…so then can I get to the fridge, or are you gonna guard my meat all night?”

“What?”

“The meat, Derek. The steak and burgers I’m cooking for and your pack of wild beasts.”

“Oh.” Derek, sufficiently flustered, steps out of his way, relieved that Stiles smells like his usual combination of sweet musk and weed, tinged with the various scents of the pack that soothe his wolf.

“Are you sure everything’s alright? You look especially grumpy tonight. Are you still pissed at me for spilling coffee on your Latin dictionary?”

“No.”

“Okay, good, but I still plan on replacing that.”

“It’s fine, Stiles.”

“I’m gonna go get the grill ready. Don’t let Isaac eat the raw steak.”

“That was one time!” Isaac yells from the living room, and Stiles punches Derek playfully on the arm and winks at him on his way out.

He’s so screwed.

**~*~**

At home later that night, stoned on Scott’s stash of wolfsbane-laced pot, Derek stares at the photo once again, getting hard ridiculously fast. He takes his time getting off, teasing his ass with lube-slick fingers, imagining Stiles’ hands, his mouth. He wants all of him, and his mind is a flurry of images and lustful hope: Stiles under him, eager and hungry, pliant, trusting; those damned eyes of his going wide when Derek finally enters him; the noises he might make in the throes of pleasure, the obscene and absurd things he’d say through breathy moans.

Derek falls asleep on messy sheets, the phone still clutched in his hand.

**~*~**

The next few weeks are a torment of anxious nerves. Derek vacillates endlessly between the secret thrill of getting off to Stiles’ photo and spending time with the man himself, worried he’ll somehow know, or, even worse – that Stiles will have found what he’s looking for on Tinder.

Every time the pack gets together, every time Stiles comes to the loft for research or to pick up a book, or just to lounge on the couch and talk for hours on end, Derek struggles constantly to control himself and not let his desire and frustration show. He thinks he’s doing an okay job of keeping it together - even though Cora, and now Erica, who’s been recruited to her cause - keep chiding him about his grumpiness.

A few weeks after the barbecue at Stiles’ house, they all gather at the loft for a quick meeting about a possible chupacabra sighting. Afterward, everyone wanders out, except Stiles, who volunteered, as usual, to stay and help Derek research.

“Want to order Thai?” Stiles calls from the living room. “You want your usual?”

“Sure, that sounds good,” Derek answers from the kitchen, throwing the pack’s empty soda cans in the recycling bin, then grabbing a couple beers from the fridge. Derek is both happy and anxious that he gets to spend time alone with Stiles, a familiar and confusing mix of emotions that is starting to become exhausting.

When he turns around, he sees that Stiles has joined him in the kitchen and is leaning against the counter. He passes him a bottle, feeling utterly foolish and the small tingle of pleasure he feels when their hands brush – a pleasure that’s cut short now that he’s close enough to catch the details of Stiles’ scent.

He didn’t notice earlier, with all of the pack there and carrying the various scents of their lives; but now, when it’s just the two of them and they’re standing close, it’s all Derek can smell: the unmistakable, familiar scent of Stiles, marred by something else.

 _Someone_ else. A man who uses too much cheap aftershave, some stranger, _someone not Derek_. The scent is faint but recent, and it makes Derek's nostrils flare and makes his blood hot. He shoots Stiles a glare and chucks a bottle cap on the counter with too much force, then stalks past him into the living room.

He’s too agitated to sit, so he just stands by the table next to the window and throws open an old book to a page at random.

Stiles strolls in, gulping at his beer, trying to look nonchalant, but Derek can hear the uptick in his heartbeat, can read the crease of concern in his brow better than he can read the damn book he’s pretending to be suddenly absorbed in.

Stiles taps long fingers on the table and sips at his beer, both gestures downright obscene to Derek after so many furtive imaginings. “You’ve really mastered the art of angry reading, Der. Truly. I bet all of the books tremble in fear.”

Derek risks looking up at him, but he doesn’t respond.

“Come on, Derbear, you know your piercing death glare doesn’t work on me anymore.”

He resolutely keeps his silence and finishes the rest of his beer in one long gulp, while Stiles watches, scoffing. After a moment, he sits down across the table from him and opens one of the old Hale bestiaries. Derek continues to glare for a bit, but then finally sits down too and tries to actually read the book in front of him.

He takes a deep breath to settle himself, but that’s a huge mistake - he gets a headful of Stiles’ stranger-tainted scent. Nostrils flaring, he turns the page so hard it rips in half.

“Seriously, dude?” Stiles snaps. “What is your problem?”

Derek pushes his chair back from the table, letting out a loud huff. “I just…” he sputters, fisting the torn page into a crumpled ball, frustration forcing the words free. “Would you just please take a shower after your Tinder dates before you come over here?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open in surprise, and that certainly doesn’t help Derek’s uncontrollable lust problem.

“My Tinder dates? How did you know I was…” He pauses for a beat, cocking his head in realization and curiosity. “Holy shit, you’re on Tinder, too? Why haven’t we matched? Why haven’t I seen your profile?”

Derek sighs. “I only had it for a few hours,” he finally admits. “Cora set it up. I got freaked out when I saw your profile, so I deleted it.” He’s still anxious as hell about the whole situation, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel relief at finally telling Stiles the truth. Or least most of the truth.

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, eyes crinkling at the corners as he squints at him, his expression assessing and inquisitive and _fucking beautiful_. “And you don’t like me smelling like someone else?”

Derek falls silent again, lips pressed tight, not trusting himself to speak. But he sees the moment it all clicks for Stiles, who’s too quick by a half and figures it out in a second. It feels like the world stops spinning, like everything is slowing down for this moment that is suddenly the most important in Derek's tragic life.

“Are you jealous?” Stiles asks, sounding incredulous.

Something inside Derek snaps then, the strain of fighting his feelings finally too much. “Yes!” he nearly roars. “Of course I’m jealous! You’re mine!”

Stiles’ eyes go wide with surprise, his eyebrows darting up high. He stares at him for what feels like an eternity before he finally speaks again. “Yours?”

Derek can’t answer, can only sit there and glare, overwhelmed and terrified.

Stiles stands up and slowly walks toward him until he’s put himself between Derek and the table.

His thighs brush Derek’s knees.

He’s practically in his lap.

“Yours?” Stiles repeats, looking down at him with a heated stare.

Derek’s mouth goes dry. He swallows hard, and his nostrils flare. He nods.

Stiles leans even closer. “Prove it.”

**~*~**

The purest, most powerful instinct launches Derek to his feet so he can pin Stiles against the table and cage him with his body, which is thrumming with a chaotic mess of feelings, all of them swirling around the bone-deep need for him, his wolf clawing to claim his mate.

He wants to breathe him in deep, wants to bite and leave the first of countless marks on that tender, fragile skin. But he’s stopped by that infuriating scent. _Someone else_ on Stiles – the Tinder date that had snapped Derek’s tightly wound control and spurred him to finally lay his claim.

“Shower. _Now_.” It’s more growl than words, echoing through the loft, and it makes Stiles’ eyebrows arch up even farther and his eyes glitter even brighter. His tainted scent blooms with even more lust, though. Derek’s cock throbs in response, and he can’t help but smile as he notes this development for later.

But first, Stiles has to get that foul smell off of him, before Derek shifts completely and goes hunting the guy down just on principle. "Shower,” he repeats, with slightly more control, his eyes still glowing.

"Yeah, okay, big guy." Stiles licks his lips, and his eyes drop down to stare at Derek's mouth. He wants to howl in response, wants to turn him around and take him right there, bend him over the table and show Stiles, with punishing pleasure, who he belongs to.

But not yet. Not until he smells like no one but himself.

Derek steps back just enough to let Stiles free, barely stopping himself from marching him to the bathroom.

Stiles walks backward away from him, teeth biting into his impish grin, amber eyes sparkling and wide with arousal. "One clean Stiles, comin' right up." He winks, _with finger guns_ for the love of God, and stumbles against the couch, and somehow, Derek falls even more in love with the beautiful idiot.

**~*~**

After what seems like an eternity of impatient pacing, during which Derek retrieves a bottle of lube from the bedroom and then nearly rips off his shirt for suddenly feeling too tight and hot, he hears the shower switch off. And, what seems like another eternity later, Stiles emerges from the bathroom, skin still damp and hair darkly wet and dripping.

He strides into the middle of the loft, towel slung loosely around his hips, tantalizingly, deliberately low. Derek can't help but stare, slack-jawed, a decade of lust a fire lighting him from the inside out but still he's struck by the extraordinary beauty of him. Stiles' eyes rake down Derek's bare chest and linger on the bulge growing in his fleece pants before dragging up again.

When their eyes meet, the world moves again.

Two long strides and Derek has him in his arms, seizing him by the back of the neck with one hand, the other gripping his waist.

Stiles makes a noise of startled pleasure, his body instinctively yielding to his, and Derek answers with his own satisfied, hungry grunt. He buries his face in his neck, this time allowing himself to inhale deeply. He smells warm and sweet, his scent pure and slightly tinged with Derek’s. He falls into it, the scent of _them_ , aching to dive deeper still until Stiles is thoroughly and completely saturated in his scent, until Derek’s soaked in his, until they’re indistinguishable.

They move together toward the couch in a tangled stumble, and Derek just barely has the presence of mind to get Stiles sprawled on his back before he’s on him, face still pressed to his neck, covering him with his body, holding onto him for dear life.

“You all right there, big guy?” Stiles whispers into his hair, and Derek realizes he’s shaking from the pure rush of emotion and arousal exploding in him. He nods, not trusting his words, and takes a steadying breath, moves up on to his elbows to look at him. Stiles meets his eyes with that mischievous eagerness that makes him so utterly, fascinatingly, endearing, but there’s also a hitch to his breath, a skip to his heartbeat that tells Derek he’s just as stunned and overwhelmed. That steadies Derek, knowing at Stiles wants this just as much as he does, knowing that he’s standing on this precipice with him.

The kiss is slow at first, almost cautious, like they’re both scared of how powerful it is. Stiles’ mouth is soft against his, and with the first brush of Derek’s tongue, it opens for him, warm and inviting, willing, hungry. Derek licks into his mouth, deepens the kiss as the urgency rises between them. Stiles arches underneath him, twists his fingers into Derek’s hair, urging him on, asking for more.

Derek readily gives it, kisses and kisses him until they’re both breathless, kisses him for all the times over the past decade that’s he been dying to and stopped himself, kisses him until their mouths are raw, until Stiles’ lips and chin are red with beard burn, until their hard cocks are arching against each other through the layers of fabric between them.

Derek kisses down his neck, rubs his beard into his skin, delighting in the sweet moans and even sweeter scent it elicits from him. With a quick, strong tug, Derek yanks the towel from where it’s bunched around Stiles’ hips and tosses it away. They both gasp and groan when Stiles’ cock, now freed, brushes against the hard plane of Derek’s abs.

“Oh my fucking hell,” Stiles mutters, and Derek responds with a smiling bite at his collarbone, which earns him even more delightful nonsense.

Moving down and across his chest, Derek licks and kisses, bites and nuzzles, traces those moles in every configuration with his mouth. He feels drunk on the taste of his skin, lightheaded from Stiles’ cock, the tip growing wet with precome, sliding up his torso, tangling in his chest hair. The lower he moves the louder the hungry growl in his chest grows, and by the time he’s made his way to his hips, he knows his eyes are starting to glow. It’s all he can do to keep his claws from unsheathing.

He rises to his knees between Stiles’ spread thighs, and takes another steadying breath – but it’s no use, not with this view, gazing down at his pale skin, the constellation of moles he’s memorized from that photo now redrawn by the sprays of pinking red left by Derek’s mouth and beard. It’s a heady sight, Stiles’ skin marked up like that, and it calls to his wolf in a way he’s never felt before, a beckoning as powerful as the moon.

He doesn’t realize that he’s let his claws slip free until Stiles lets out a surprised yip. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Derek says in a rush, pulling his hands away from his hips, guilt and embarrassment rising.

Stiles snatches his hands and settles them firmly back where they were. "Hey, look at me." His voice is firm but gentle and utterly sincere, a rarity Derek knows the value of quite well. He pulls his eyes back up to Stiles’ face, his heart an ache in his chest.

“I like it, the wolf stuff,” Stiles says. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Derek isn’t used to smiling during sex, but he finds he can’t get enough of it with Stiles. He knows he’s telling the truth, can hear it in the steady strong pounding of his heart.

Derek nods. “Okay. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Stile’ heart pounds even louder, and his smile is the sweetest, purest thing Derek’s ever seen. “I know.”

**~*~**

“ _Derek_ …fuck…fuck… _Derek_.”

The sound of Stiles coming, moans breaking around his name, the heavy gasp and hitch of his breath, is almost enough to make Derek come himself, untouched, simply from the sublime pleasure and privilege of sucking Stiles’ cock.

He’s teased and pleased him for as long they both can stand it, unabashedly worshipping his big beautiful dick in all of the ways he’s wanted to in the past decade: tonguing every inch of him, mouthing his balls while his cock slides roughly against his beard, giving him his throat to thrust into, his eyes aglow and the tips of his claws pressing just firmly enough into the soft curve of his ass, Stiles’ fingers twisted in his hair.

Derek’s own groan becomes a growl when the first spurt hits his tongue, the taste of his mate’s pleasure sparking an explosion of sensation within him. He lets the tip slide from his mouth, across his beard, down his neck, each thick spill of come lighting up Derek’s skin as it coats him. Derek wants to rub it into his skin, but that would mean taking his hands off of Stiles, and there’s no way he can do that, not yet, not when the heat of Stiles’ orgasm is still pulsing through him, a fire licking under his skin that feeds the one under Derek’s, the one in his heart.

By the time Stiles is done, he’s a languid, panting mess, long limbs strewn across the couch, still muttering and swearing. Derek finally manages to pull himself away to stand and drop the pants from his hips, sighing in relief to finally free his own throbbing cock, which is practically dripping with anticipation. He grabs the lube from the table and settles back on his knees between Stiles’ thighs, the tender skin of them now also dotted with blossoming hickies and the shallow indentations left by Derek’s fangs.

As soon as he’s back on the couch, Stiles, with come-drunk grace, arches up to pull him into a messy, wild kiss, his tongue eager, it seems, for the taste of his cock on Derek’s lips. His hands, drag down his chest, gathering up his own come before slipping those obscenely long, strong fingers around Derek’s swollen, aching cock.

Derek moans into his mouth just as Stiles pull away from the kiss. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he groans, astonished, those eyes, pupils blown wide and glittering, drop down to stare. “I figured you’d be big, and fuck knows I _imagined_ you’d be _huge_ , but _goddamn,_ Der.”

There he goes, smiling again. His cheeks feel warm too, and it’s not the lust this time, but the strange and utterly intoxicating feeling of Stiles’ affection, of his desire. “You _imagined_?” It’s hard to be coy with his cock in Stiles’ come-slick hands, but Derek thinks he’s pulled it off.

Stiles yanks his eyes up from his cock to level Derek with a devastating smirk. “Like you haven’t _imagined_ ,” he challenges.

He lets out a deeply satisfying yelp of surprise when Derek darts forward to catch his sinfully pink and smirking mouth in another kiss, this one demanding and rough. And then, whispers quietly, with utter sincerity: “Every night since I saw your photo on that stupid app.” The next kiss is as gentle as the other was fierce. “And pretty much every night before that, too.”

Stiles snorts a laugh. “Glad it wasn’t just me then, _big_ guy,” he quips, squeezing his cock and wiggling his eyebrows. He laughs at his own joke, and Derek absolutely must kiss him again.

“So what have you imagined?” Derek asks when their lips eventually part again. His own mind, usually so inventive when it comes to imagining all of the things he wants to do to Stiles, can only think of one thing he wants, the one thing his wolf wants more than anything.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything we haven’t done in my imagination, dude.” Stiles licks his lips. “And I’m down for pretty much all of it, whatever you want, big guy.”

Derek smiles, hope pawing at his chest like his wolf. “Can I knot you?”

Stiles beams with excitement, his smile glowing, his eyes glittering. “It’s about time you asked.”

Derek’s smile feels like a beam of light too. He drops his neck forward to let his forehead fall against Stiles’. The contact, warm skin to warm skin, and the intimacy of it, their eyes, their everything, so close, is as exhilarating to Derek as the scent of Stiles’ lust. He takes a few steadying breaths. “You should know that – maybe you do know – most wolves only knot their mates. It’s possible to knot with anyone, but most of us consider it sacred, so – ”

Stiles closes the slip of distance between them, pulling him into a kiss at once tender and urgent. “I know that,” he whispers with kiss-swollen lips. “And like I said – it’s about time you asked.”

**~*~**

“Derek, if you don’t put your fucking monster wolf dick inside of me _right now_ , I swear to holy _hell_ – ”

Of the many revelations Derek has gained this evening, the discovery that he can take Stiles from cocky and demanding to a quivering, moaning mess with just a touch is certainly of his favorites. Derek uses two carefully unclawed and lubed fingers to push farther into him, curling just right to hit the spot that makes him shake; he presses slowly, deeply, further rendering Stiles incoherent and wickedly pliant.

Derek, with depths of self-control he didn’t know he was capable of, has been carefully prepping Stiles to take his knot, lavishing lustful affection on him while sliding slick fingers in and out of him, stretching. He’s likely readied him more than is strictly necessary, but Derek takes his vow not to hurt him to heart. The remarkable delight of Stiles’ obscene, expletive-filled moans have both encouraged him to take his time and urged him on, his lust and affection for him utterly and completely all-consuming.

Like his chest, the map of moles across Stiles’ back is now dotted with sprays of red from Derek’s beard and mouth. Derek gazes down at the evidence of his adoration, smiling, and slides his fingers free to grasp firmly at Stiles’ waist. “You ready?” he asks, barely more than a whisper.

Derek is expecting another expletive-laden diatribe demanding his cock, but Stiles surprises him by simply nodding and saying _yes_ in a breathless moan. Derek guides the head of his cock to push against the pink, slick wetness of him. He pauses for the briefest of moments before pushing in, as slow as he can bear to, biting back his own groans in order to better hear Stiles’.

It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before, the sublime heat and squeeze growing ever hotter, ever tighter, as he sinks into him, overwhelmed with sensation. The full length and girth of his cock buried to the hilt, Stiles moaning, gasping, quivering, Derek rocks his hips, tentative and exploratory.

He drinks in the deliciously tantalizing scent of Stiles’ arousal, a pungent and heavy cloud of elixir that intoxicates Derek along with the dizzying pleasure of each thrust. The world becomes nothing but this moment, nothing but the overwhelming beauty and graceful lines of Stiles’ body, the way he begins to roll his hips in time with Derek’s quickening thrusts, the music of his moans, the waves of pleasure roiling between them, a new glowing heat throbbing at the base of his cock, his knot eager to take his mate completely.

One hand gripped tight on Stiles’ left hip, he arches over his back to caress and kiss his flexing shoulders and tender neck. Stiles twists back to catch his mouth in an off-kilter kiss, his breath hot on Derek’s beard, halos of honeyed brown glittering around his blown pupils. A hard thrust makes Stiles pull away from his mouth and moan wildly, but that’s nothing compared to the yelp of indignation he lets out when Derek pulls out of him completely.

“Derek,” he whines, needy and hungry. “What the hell – _oof_!”

Again, Derek finds absolute joy in surprising Stiles into silence, this time by scooping him up by the waist like he weighs nothing at all, even though the heft of his lean muscles feels solid and sure in his arms, the most _something_ anything’s ever felt. He switches places with him to sit on the couch, spreading Stiles’ legs over his thighs to straddle him, those amber, desire-soaked eyes now staring down at him. He pulls him into a proper kiss, deep and slow, licking into his beard-reddened mouth while dragging his hands across Stiles’ chest and down to his hard cock, which is reddened as well, the tip slick with precome.

Stiles is rocking his hips, angling back towards Derek’s dick, which is throbbing insistently, demanding its home again. Derek grabs his ass and spreads him, guiding his eager hole back over the tip of his own leaking cock, in awe of the beauty of Stiles’ face as he enters him – mouth falling open farther with each inch he takes, the awe in the furrow of his brows, the sweep of his long lashes, blinking hard, until, finally, the pleasure too much, his eyes roll back and moans fall from his lips – it’s so overwhelmingly beautiful it make Derek’s heart ache.

The return of Stiles’ tight wet heat around his cock makes Derek gasp and moan himself, and he can’t help but buck up into him, seeking even more of that perfect pleasure, anchoring his hands on his slim waist. Stiles meets his thrusts with his own movement, and soon they’re moving in exquisite tandem, Stiles rocking and bouncing on his cock like he’s trying to take him impossibly deeper, squeezing tight with each delicious slide up and down, riding and bucking. It’s not long before Derek feels that still-new throb of burning heat at the base of his cock, his balls achingly heavy and full, seizing tight, the wave of pleasure rushing towards its crest.

Derek has imagined countless times what it might feel like to knot his mate, and in more recent years, what it might feel like to knot Stiles, but no amount of imagining could have prepared him for the real thing. It’s like he’s shifting, but not, his wolf emerging in a wholly new, and utterly overwhelming way.

His claws unsheathe again, their razor-sharp tips grazing Stiles’ skin, which makes him smirk down at him while biting his lip, his face begging for more, his body rocking even harder and faster on Derek’s swelling cock. He feels the heat in his eyes too, knows they’re glowing red and that Stiles loves it. The transformation surges from his cock, the pulses of pure energy and pleasure culminating in the explosive popping of his knot, his panting groans of pleasure erupting into a growl that bounces off the walls. Its echo twines with Stiles’ cry, a bellow of stunned pleasure that descends into a panting moan.

Derek comes hard, harder than he ever has, wild spasms of stunning pleasure licking through him like fire, growling again in ecstasy as he fills his mate full of his come. Hands gripped tight on Derek’s shoulders, Stiles comes again, still squeezing and bouncing on Derek’s knot, his cock untouched and spurting across Derek’s flexing abs. It’s unbelievably, extraordinarily erotic and intense and utterly perfect, transcendent, and Derek wants to make it last forever, even as the bliss of and pure, perfect pleasure renders time meaningless.

**~*~**

Sometime later, they stumble together through the moonlit loft and make their way to the bed, where they fall in a heap of exhausted, sweat-and-come-slick limbs. Derek holds him close and inhales deeply, luxuriating in their combined scents, and Stiles presses his face into him, mumbling something that gets lost in his chest.

“Hmm?” Derek asks.

Stiles pulls his mouth away from his skin just enough to be heard. “I said if I wasn’t so tired, I’d delete Tinder from my phone. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

“You better,” Derek half-growls, that all-too-familiar pang of jealousy feinting towards him again. “Although,” he adds after a moment’s thought, “I guess I should be grateful for it, because it did lead to this.”

Stiles' smirk is sleepy but still mischievous. "Well then, my evil plan worked perfectly."

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you seemed pretty oblivious to my all-consuming crush on you, so I _may_ have joined Tinder to make you jealous…but to be fair, it was actually Cora’s idea.”

Derek’s laugh echoes almost as loud as his orgasmic growls had. Cora’s overbearing insistence that he join the dating app suddenly makes so much more sense. “It was a good idea,” he begrudgingly admits, kissing his forehead.

“Too bad you still don’t have yours,” Stiles mumbles sleepily. “I wanna swipe right on you, big guy.”

Derek smiles into his hair. “I think you just did.”


End file.
